Simply Having
by dietplainlite
Summary: While working a case with Molly on Christmas Eve, Sherlock is sidetracked by an accidental indulgence


It's one o'clock on Christmas morning and Sherlock Holmes is in Molly Hooper's kitchen, eating all of her shortbread fingers.

Well, currently he's peering at the label, reading the ingredients. There are perhaps four biscuits left in the plastic tray sitting on the worktop.

"Flour, sugar, butter, and salt. That's all." He turns the package over to look at the front. "Four ingredients, and it's perfect." He shoves another in his mouth and looks around for his tea.

"Yes," she says, handing him his mug. "It's quite my favorite. That brand in particular. Jalil at work remembered and brought some back from Edinburgh the last time she visited her parents."

"Mmm," he says, wiping crumbs from his mouth.

"Only the one packet, though."

"That's a shame. I could eat at least half of another."

"It's only available at this one shop, and they don't have online ordering."

"Practically medieval."

"I was saving it for tomorrow."

It finally clicks. He looks down. There's one finger left in the tray, and it's broken in two, surrounded by the crumbs of its brethren.

"Oh."

Molly can't be too upset with him. This is tame, compared to what he got up to last Christmas, but she's still amazed that he let himself get in this condition. For Sherlock Holmes is baked out of his gourd on spliff, and truly by accident.

The text had come in as she'd finished her shift earlier that evening.

-Case came in that has to be worked tonight. John obviously otherwise occupied. Need your assistance—

-Please?—

-:)-

The use of an emoji was a new touch. Mary's influence, perhaps?

 _-What makes you think I'm free tonight?—_

-It's eight o'clock. You just got off your third twelve hour shift in a row and you're seeing your friends tomorrow evening.-

 _-Fair point, showoff. When and where?—_

-I'll pick you up at ten. Wear something smart.—

Her smartest item of clothing is a black A-line sweater dress, but when paired with her new black booties she was fairly certain she wouldn't be mistaken for a restaurant hostess. She'd just taken her braids out, run her fingers through the waves, and put on a quick bit of makeup when she heard the buzzer. He was dressed as he always did, and he gave her appearance a quick nod of approval before escorting her to the waiting sedan.

"So, where are we going?"

"Drinks at an artist's loft in Islington. My client got us an invite under some pretense or another. I need to get a good look at a painting."

The flat was all white space and wood furniture and Scandinavian lighting. Drum and bass music alternated with folk covers of Christmas songs at near painful decibels.

After a few minutes of shouted conversation with a performance artist and their partner, Sherlock indicated it was time to look for the painting. It hung in the bedroom, the only enclosed room (other than the loo) in the entire flat. They managed to sneak into the room unobserved while everyone was preoccupied watching a video of a man hanging licorice from his nipple piercings, only to discover six other guests passing around a spliff.

"Oh," Sherlock said, throwing his arm around Molly's waist and pulling her close. "Excuse us. We, erm, thought the room was unoccupied."

They turned to go, but a blonde man with an enormous beard and a waxed mustache held out the spliff.

"We'll be out of here in a minute." He waved the spliff at them again. "Go ahead. It helps enhance the mood, yeah?"

Sherlock had gone a bit blank at that comment, so Molly took the joint.

"Thanks, mate, she said, before taking an enormous pull. She held the smoke in her mouth but didn't inhale, hoping that whatever passed into her blood stream via the mucous lining of her mouth wouldn't have a significant effect. Exhaling, she passed it to Sherlock.

He snapped out of his stupor and accepted it. The drag he took was even bigger than Molly's, and she looked on in horror as he inhaled deeply.

"We should go," she said as Sherlock passed the spliff to a bespectacled person in a waistcoat and maxi skirt.

"Why? They said they'd be gone in a bit." His eyes had begun to look quite glassy already.

The joint came back round before she could answer, so she took another fake hit and tried desperately to silently communicate to him not to inhale again. He squinted at her, frowning, before taking another enormous drag.

Thankfully, it only made it around the circle twice more and the rest of the guests drifted out in search of food and drink. Sherlock made a bee line for the painting as soon as they were gone, and Molly held out some hope that either he was a better actor than she'd thought, or he had an incredible tolerance for marijuana.

Her hopes were soon dashed, however. Sherlock stared at the painting for a full three minutes before turning to her.

"Have you ever noticed just how many shades of blue there are?"

"Oh Christ. Sherlock, you didn't actually have to smoke, you know."

"Why not? You did."

"I didn't, though."

"But I saw you."

'''You see but you don't observe,'" Molly said. "Did you _see_ me inhale?"

He stared at her, droopy lidded, and shrugged. "It's okay. I'm perfectly fine, you know. Marijuana is child's play."

"Mmhmm. And what exactly are you supposed to discover about this painting?"

He looked at it again, at a different corner this time, and after thirty seconds, shrugged again.

"I don't…know."

"Okay. Time to go. You can tell your client that you couldn't get in the same room with the painting. Or maybe tomorrow your subconscious will dredge something up."

She'd led him out of the room and out of the party, only stopping for him to chug a glass of water and grab a handful of crostini from a tray.

On the drive back to her flat, he had opened the sun roof.

"Molly," he said, looking up. "I hate the countryside, you know, but at least you can see stars there."

"I know."

"And Molly, the stars really _are_ important. There are children, even grownups, in London right now who have never seen stars. Because they've never left. And I have the nerve to hate the countryside."

"The utter nerve."

"Do you think I should, I don't know, offer to take some underprivileged kids to the country? Maybe to the sea?"

"Absolutely not. With the way murder follows you around?"

"Oh, God! Does it really?"

"It's an expression."

"But no, what if—what if it's true? What if I actually _attract_ crime? I could go to the south of France right now and within four hours I'd find a murder to solve. What if I'm the cause?"

"Sherlock, you're not the cause…most of the time. You're just observant and love to stick your nose into everyone's business."

"Maybe you're right." He said, and settled into a troubled silence the rest of the journey.

At her flat, he insisted on coming inside with her, to make sure she got in safely.

"I don't think you could protect me from a toy poodle right now, Sherlock."

"You're right. But I need another glass of water. Or tea."

He'd rummaged through her cabinets and found the shortbread while she was busy making tea. By the time she noticed what he was eating, it was half gone.

And now she's staring at a sad, broken biscuit and trying desperately not to yell at him. She takes a deep breath. She's going to remind him again about boundaries. About asking instead of taking and how that applied even when you're not sober. But when she looks back up he's so soft looking, so relaxed, that she doesn't have the heart. Tomorrow, when he's fully armored again.

"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll send the car away. I don't think you need a driver at your beck and call right now. You might very well end up in the south of France."

"I'm sorry about the biscuits."

"It's really all right."

He relents to sleeping on her sofa as she'd put her foot down long ago about letting him use her bed. When she goes to turn off the lamp, he tells her to leave it on.

"Okay. Well, good night."

"Wait. Come here."

Molly's stomach does that thing it does when he pitches his voice that low. That little flip flop accompanied by a much deeper pull in her groin.

"What?"

He shuffles over a bit and pats the sofa beside him. She contemplates saying no and continuing to her room, but soon finds herself perched on the sofa, looking down at her hands.

"Molly, look at me."

She looks. He's sporting a loose, lopsided grin, which fades as he looks in her eyes.

"You know," he says. "That I find most fiction and poetry and popular music to be ridiculous."

"Yes," she says. She's actually breathless. She hates herself for that.

"I've realized they're even more rubbish than I thought."

"Oh." Of course. He's just reminding her again that he is not the type of man she wants. He's married to his work. His heart is made of case files and logic and—he's got his hand on her face.

"It's rubbish because, as far as I can tell, none of them ever really talk about brown eyes, do they?"

"Sherlock." It is barely a whisper.

"They never talk, about how warm they are. Did you know that when you turn your face to the lamp just right, they glow?"

He moves his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck. She closes her eyes and allows herself one second to revel in it before standing up.

"Right. Well, one of these days maybe the poets and musicians will catch on, yeah?" She tosses a few more cushions off the couch and puts his glass of water within reach. "Do you need anything else? I've had a long day."

"Stay?"

"You know that's not a good idea."

"So?"

"You're not sober."

"Would you stay if I were?"

"Maybe. Now, do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you. You can turn the lamp off now."

Molly nods, turns it off and goes into her room. She shuts the door without looking back.

He's gone when she wakes up, the blanket in a puddle on the floor, Toby asleep on the vacated pillow. She sighs and tidies up, moving Toby so she can put the pillow case and blanket in the wash, because she will not have things in her house that smell of him.

The rest of the day goes as usual for Christmas. She givess Toby his special five quid a tin Christmas food, Skype with her aunt, then goes out for Chinese with Meena and Amal.

There's a package sitting by her front door when she gets home. It's exquisitely wrapped in gold foil paper with cascading curls of red ribbon. There is no card. The part of her brain that is attuned to the constant danger involved with being an associate of Sherlock Holmes is wary, but the other part, the one that lives in the real world, is intrigued.

Inside, she plucks the bow off the top, dropping it for Toby to play with, then carefully removes the paper to reveal two packets of the Scottish shortbread. On top is a note, written in a familiar scrawl.

 _Sometimes, having a literal Big Brother as one's big brother comes in handy. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper._

 _-Sherlock Holmes_

 _P.S. I will come back after I escape my family. Perfectly sober._


End file.
